From the Fishouse

Landscape of props and shields, all there is to see –
animals in lots and no still point
in or outside of the car. The town not a town,
the town not a village, the apartment building
accepting only a bleak 1970’s sunlight
on its rear façade. All with a ward-like feel, even the mountains
resemble some preventative measure.
Snow massed on the bridge over the river, and the bridge collapsed.
It was an historic bridge, now it’s a cement artery
spanning the banks. Partially denuded robins, wounded
by flitting into the power station, explore defeat all afternoon.
My neighbor’s chickens need to be restrained
from eating what they laid this morning.
Nearby, there’s access to pasture for ruminants.
So I hear. Any angels who visit are scavenging.
I have been prepared to ask for blessings
but end up requesting for something to collapse on me
and so become one of those things worth praying after.